


Anniversaries

by Calleva



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Gen, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calleva/pseuds/Calleva
Summary: Moret-sur-Loise is a medieval town about 50 miles from Paris. Two men have business there, but not with each other. One rides away with a tiresome burden, the other arrives with a burden of memories he'd rather forget.Information is hard to come by, but leads to surprises.The need to belong is perhaps the deepest of all.
Kudos: 6





	Anniversaries

What was worse, parades or escorting a Spanish turncoat? Both of them involved heat, flies and boredom but at least in a parade you didn't have to make conversation. Porthos sighed as he led his companion through an open field but then his heart lifted at the sight of the distant towers of Notre Dame cathedral. They always seemed so welcoming, especially after nearly four days' riding.  
"There's your new home," he declared. Suarez sniffed "I hope you will find a comfortable place for me."  
"My job ends when we get there."

They had ridden for nearly two days. Porthos had met Suarez in the hour before dawn in Moret-sur-Loing, but the Spaniard had refused to tell him anything, insisting on speaking only to Treville. His information would come at a price, clearly - he wanted a cosy billet in Paris as a reward for betraying his country. Porthos didn't think highly of men who would sell their loyalties for gold. A poor man might, in order to survive, but judging from Suarez' manicured nails, just appearing beneath the layers of his disguise, he was used to indulgence.

What he wasn't used to was long journeys on horseback. "How long before we reach the city?" The Spaniard's voice tailed into a whine. He sat his horse uncomfortably, indicating saddle soreness.  
"Depends on how fast you want to ride," Porthos eyed the other man's horse, a pretty buckskin with dark mane and tail; it was more compact than his own Sarabande, but looked strong and capable. Before he could speak, Suarez had flapped the reins and dug his heels into its sides. The horse threw up its head and snorted in protest.  
"He won't go any faster until he's had a rest. I suggest we water them at the stream and when they are ready, we can make good time."  
"But if we stop it will waste time.... at least now we are moving." Suarez winced as he spoke.  
"Have you thought of padding your seat with your cloak? It's not so cold now, you could do without it."  
Suarez pulled on the reins, causing his mount to walk backwards. Porthos sighed again, jumped off Saro and had the cloak folded and in place under his companion's skinny backside. "There, that should be more comfortable."

_Please God...._

It was the first of the month and Paris would be celebrating the May festivals, an ideal time for sneaking into the city with a man in disguise. Suarez' disappearance would by now have been noticed by his comrades and after a fruitless search of the brothels and taverns, suspicions would start to grow.  
"So what will you do when your errand is over?" Suarez was clearly bored now his discomfort was less. Porthos was quiet for a moment, "Well it's the anniversary of my birthday, so I will celebrate with some ale and a meat pie,"  
"A fortuitous date, indeed." Suarez said no more, to Porthos' relief. Porthos fell to thinking about what he really might do. Probably nothing at all, just brief Treville and fall gratefully into bed. He'd been awake for hours.

In truth, Porthos had no idea when his birthday was. In the Court of Miracles, that cheerful but menacing slum full of thieves, murderers and assorted low-lifes, no one had birthdays. His mother could only remember that he was born in late Spring so the First of May seemed a nice, 'fortuitous' date to choose when he joined the Musketeers. Traditionally it was when the winter was truly past and people celebrated the earth's returning fruitfulness. All he would celebrate was a chance to wash and sleep.

\---------

I've come a long way, thought Georges Marcheaux as he rode into Moret-sur-Loing. Oddly, he had no sensation of dread. That might come of course, when he visited That Place. Meanwhile, he headed for the great church of Notre Dame de la Nativité, which dwarfed the surrounding houses and taverns. It had no fears for him at all; his memory was of a small badly-lit church, probably on the outskirts, where the children would head in a neat line every Sunday.

The curé noticed his smart clothing and fine chestnut horse and invited him indoors. It had been a long ride and Marcheaux was grateful for refreshment.  
"We do in fact keep all the old registers, so even if your baptism had occurred in another church, if it was within the city boundary, then we will have record of it here." And the clergyman left him in a comfortable chair while he went to look.

Georges Marcheaux did not recall his parents. They had died when he was small and a local notary had placed him in the orphanage for pauper children. In a place where you had to fight to survive, he had been forced to choose between being a bully or being picked on. Not much option, really, and his ability to fist fight had eventually impressed a certain dark stranger. As he grew older, he gave up hope that an aunt or uncle might claim him. He had been alone in the world until The Marquis de Feron had appeared one day. selected him as one might choose a puppy from a litter, put him into a carriage and taken him to Paris.

Now Georges was no longer that hungry, scrawny child with the watchful eyes but a smartly dressed captain of the Paris militia. Surely this place of his unhappy childhood had no terrors for him?

After a quarter of an hour or so, the priest reappeared holding up a battered old book with a smile of triumph, "I have it here, the date!" He called Marcheaux over to the table and opened the book. "The parish record for this church. You see, here you are..."  
Marcheaux squinted down at the entry, "Marcheaux, Geo. s. of Jean and Mathilde, bapt. 10th July 1613."

He thanked the curé and left, thinking. That single line contained all that could be known of the first years of his life. Presumably he had been born a day or so before his baptism, unless his mother had been unwell. July! A month of sunshine and long drowsy days. He would fix his birthdate at 7th July, give himself a lucky number.

Hungry, he headed into the town and found himself a room for the night. With Karthago safely stabled, he went out to eat.

After a surprisingly good night's sleep, Marcheaux was ready for the ordeal ahead. Moret was not a large place, he would walk. He turned the corner and there it was.... almost exactly as he remembered it, only smaller, less intimidating.

As he entered, a distant sound of children's laughter caught his ear - it sounded happy enough, but this could, of course, be deceptive. He looked around; the empty hallway looked familiar but he realised that much of it had been forgotten. Perhaps he'd blotted it from his mind. There was a strange smell he didn't recognise and under it the same faint odour of boiled cabbage. The food had been terrible, if one had the satisfaction of actually eating anything. The bigger children would take the food from the smaller, weaker ones. His reverie was broken by a young woman's voice;  
"Bonjour M'sieur, I am Sister Cecile, may I help you?"  
Marcheaux bowed, "I lived here between the years 1616 and 1625. I am wondering if you have any records from that time relating to me?"  
"That was before our order took over, but we should have something. Please wait a moment." And Sr Cecile had vanished. Overhead, on the next floor, a child started crying. Instinctively, Marcheaux recoiled, waiting for the reprimand, the shushing sound of an adult and a hissed word.  
"Oh dear, Berthe, it does not do to slip on the floor when Madame Bonnet has been polishing. Let's find a glass of milk, shall we?" Coming down the stairs a sturdy young woman came into view. In her arms was a small child, her face covered in drying tears. Georges noticed that the little girl didn't seem underfed and realised at the same time that the unfamiliar smell he'd detected was furniture polish.

He spent a couple of hours poring over the records of the orphanage. More than the place, the words on the pages brought back all the misery and despair of his life there. He found the date when he had been deposited there by his legal guardian; the notary's name was given. Marcheaux wondered whether this man was still alive, whether he should visit him and punch him hard several times, to show what his negligence had condemned a small boy to, or if dead, find the grave and spit on it.  
"Geo. Marcheaux, orphan, three and a half yrs." Under the column for family information, it stated, 'field workers, both dec'd'. Well that did explain the vague memory of a small peasants' hut.

Life occasionally throws up good things, thought the young captain as he paid the innkeeper and found Karthago waiting for him outside. He had made a donation to the orphanage and left it with the consolation that the place he remembered was no more. Only the building remained and it no longer had the same terrors for him - he would remember the cleanliness and the kindness of the young women he'd met there. He had no doubt that there would be bullies, there always were among children, but they wouldn't rule the place as they once had. He rode through the gates of Moret-sur-Loise, the city walls releasing its son back into his world, and realised that he was being watched. A little family stared at him as if they had never seen a well-dressed Parisian gentleman on a fine horse. The children were barefoot, their mother in wooden clogs; they were thin but not unhappy he thought.

He wished he could remember his mother's face.

\--------

With relief, Porthos handed over his charge to Captain Treville and moved to leave.  
"Oh, and Porthos, if you have a moment...."  
Porthos' heart sank. Not again. Please leave me alone to slink off and sleep in a corner somewhere.  
"I wonder if you could go to Christophe's and enquire about a room for a young man who is arriving tomorrow. He's a potential recruit and needs an overnight stay. If there's no room, try and find somewhere else suitable."  
"Aye, sir." With a small nod to Suarez, Porthos was gone.

There are times when he thought a parade might not be so bad... one could perhaps learn to fall asleep on one's feet, unnoticed. Pondering on whether this was possible, even if not desirable, Porthos headed towards Christophe's. The Musketeers' favourite tavern was a good choice for a new boy. If there were no rooms he supposed he could try the Three Tuns, but it was a half-hour walk, and he'd already had Saro stabled and fed, so he'd have to go by foot. He knew it well enough that he could find it in his sleep, he mused. He might even have to.....

Blearily and cursing his lot, he pushed open the door to Christophe's, intending to make straight for the man himself, with no preamble. At once a great cheer rang out and the sound of tankards drumming on tables. "What the - ?" he began, looking round. There they all were, his friends, plus Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan, looking straight at him and roaring appreciation. A big smile crossed his face "Wha's all this, eh?"  
"Happy birthday, big man," Aramis indicated a space on the bench beside him. "It's on us! You hungry?"  
"I'm always 'ungry!"

Porthos realised he was not as tired as he thought.

________________

Postscript: Birthdays weren't celebrated in the 17th century as they are now. Porthos would have his name day ('Isaac') in September, and Marcheaux (Georges) in April and these would have more significance than the anniversary of birth. Some people celebrated the anniversary of their baptism, as reflecting 'entry into new life'. 


End file.
